While You Were Gone
by brainlikeacid
Summary: Post TGG. Sherlock shoots the vest and now John is dead(?) leaving Sherlock all alone. Drug references/Johnlock. Chapters are short (1000ish words) I haven't given up on this fic, I've just been a little sidetracked with other things. I'll have updates soon, though :D
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys, welcome to my first fic :D**  
**Quick warning, this does contain drug references. They're not too explicit, but I just thought I'd give you a heads up.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.**

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The uncomfortable plastic hospital chair sat untouched in the vomit-green halls outside the surgical waiting room of St. Bart's. His legs were moving as freely and as quickly as his brain, unable to stop. If he stood still, he would **explode**.

"He'll be fine, Sherlock, John's a fighter." Lestrade's voice was confident but did nothing to calm the pacing man. "I know you're worried, we all are. But wandering around and verbally abusing every member of staff you see isn't helping anyone."

Sherlock turned to scowl at the D.I who was clutching two cups of dirt-coloured liquid; one held out towards him in an offering. He waved a hand in dismissal, the other rubbing at the knots in his neck.

"You didn't see him. You weren't there. We should have heard something by now." Sherlock's voice was a growl.

Lestrade discarded the cups of coffee on the edge of the nurses table and leaned heavily on an unfortunate coloured wall. Sherlock could feel the other man's eyes boring into his back could almost hear his thoughts and see those eyebrows knitted together with worry. He knew he must look deranged, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This wasn't right.  
It should be him in that operating room, not John. He was the one that attracted Moriarty, he was the one that was stupid enough to point a gun at a bomb and he was the one that pulled the trigger. But, with John being stubbornly selfless and completely ignorant when it came to self-preservation, he'd chosen to push Sherlock into the pool and absorb the force of the blast himself. When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, Moriarty was gone and John was left crumpled and broken, the minutes spent listening out for sirens spreading into something closer resembling years. Sherlock shook his head, stomach twisting at the memory.

Half an hour passed, then another, still with no news.  
Eventually, Lestrade turned to leave. Paperwork, messes to clean up, a psychopath to find, it was going to be a busy day at Scotland Yard. Sherlock grunted a promise to call as soon as an update was available and threw himself unceremoniously into a chair, fingers pressed together under his chin.

_Reasons John Watson will be fine:  
Because he is a soldier.  
Because he has seen trauma. He has experienced trauma. He has overcome trauma.  
Because he is strong.  
Because he has to.  
Because I __**need**__ him to._

A light cough caught his attention. The woman was small, mid thirties, wrinkled scrubs.  
"Mr Holmes?" she stood slightly slouched with fingers laced together neatly at her front, and before she opened her mouth to continue, he knew. It seeped from her skin like a tidal wave, dragging him out into the middle of a bottomless expanse and leaving him to flounder. There were words like "so sorry" and "did everything we could", but he wasn't listening.  
He was more than familiar with death, having experienced the personal loss of a grandfather as a child and relying upon people's mortality daily for work and to keep himself sane. But this...this was unlike anything he'd ever felt. It was numbness and pain and screaming and silence all at once. He stood, fighting to keep his knees from buckling and left, leaving the surgeon staring after him with tears threatening tired eyes.

It was cool outside; the floor was damp and glistening with the reflection of the rising sun. Sherlock didn't notice. He didn't notice the expensive black car creeping along side him and he didn't notice his brother calling his name. He ignored the protest of his feet on the walk back to Baker Street, but he couldn't ignore the looming, overbearing silence of 221B.

-

Sherlock stood, back resting against the door of 221B, eyes drifting over the room in front of him.

It was exactly how he'd left it not 10 hours before. There were cups of tea half-made next to the sink, books sprawling over the sofa, and john's laptop left open on his chair. Sherlock sucked in a breath.  
What was he supposed to do next? Lestrade would be expecting an update, he'd need Sherlock to give a statement at Scotland Yard, and there were arrangements to be made and people to inform. He shuffled across the room, discarding his coat in the process, and sat rigidly in the cold leather chair he'd claimed all those months ago. He sat for what could have been minutes, or hours, mind dancing with sickening thoughts of John's eyes unseeing, his heart still and silent.

"34 years," he spoke aloud into the flat, voice breaking slightly "I had managed for 34 years, never needing anything from anyone. And then you, being so disgustingly ordinary, come strolling in and ruin EVERYTHING with how completely extraordinary you are! And then you go and die! _Now what am I supposed to do?!_" He was almost screaming into the empty room now, unconcerned with disturbing Mrs Hudson or the married ones next door.

Sherlock's eyes flitted to the kitchen.

The innocent looking silver box sat undisturbed on the shelf above the fridge, its simple design almost unidentifiable under the thick layer of dust that had gathered over years of sitting just out of reach. The only signs of use being the small, finger print shaped smudges on the sides where the lid had been moved slightly.  
Sherlock stared at it, eyes glazed and glistening with almost-tears. His mind was so loud it was painful, but not in the way he was accustomed to. Instead of the usual ache that came with the silence in between cases, his brain was screaming. This quiet- this _void_- was unacceptable. He glanced to the vacant chair across from him and chocked a sob, before returning to the little spot above the fridge. His hands twitched. "_John wouldn't want this", _he thought momentarily before forcing this thought back down into whatever disgusting recess it crawled from. Suddenly he was on his feet. No, John wouldn't want this, but John wasn't here.

He took 7 steps into the kitchen, stumbling a little in his haste and clutched at the cool metal before returning to his room, box in hand. He hadn't needed its contents for a long time, but kept it stocked anyway.  
"_Old habits die hard"_, he snorted.

He didn't bother to clear his bed, instead crawling into the narrow space between books and discarded experiments and emptied out the box. It had been a while, but his nimble fingers made light work of tying a makeshift tourniquet with one hand. He measured out a dose of the clear, syrupy liquid, just enough to get him through the day, and sighed at the familiar sting of the needle piercing ivory skin.

Then, there was the warmth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi guys :D**  
**Thanks so much for the couple of people that followed and favourited this story. You seriously have no idea how much of a confidence boost it gave me that people were actually interested in the junk that comes out of my head.**  
**It would be really amazing if you could review this though, just a quick couple of words letting me know what you think would seriously make my day.**

**This is only a short chapter and not too eventful (and up a little later than I planned because I've been busy with a new job and all) but I hope you like it anyway. New chapters will be coming a lot more frequently now that I'm settled and have a solid plan :D**

**Disclaimer: not even a little bit.**

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It was dull outside; the sun was setting, judging by the barely there shapes sprawling lazily through the crack in the curtains.

Sherlock groaned and pushed himself up into an uncomfortable sitting position. His mind was foggy, hanging somewhere in the balance between awake and the drowsy, post-morphine stupor. He knew he should be ashamed of himself for undoing what had taken him years to achieve, but he didn't feel anything other than the grogginess and dry mouth, which he greeted like an old friend. Standing stiffly, he pealed yesterday's shirt from his sweat stained skin and threw on his bullet hole infested dressing gown. He gathered the dirty needle and empty glass bottle back into their designated container with a sigh, putting the fresh, still packaged syringe under his pillow- just in case. Today was going to be hell.

Sherlock shuffled groggily into the kitchen and replaced the small silver box, minus the dust, in its designated space above the fridge. He made a mental note to re-stock, a frown tugging delicately at the corners of his mouth at the thought of self-medicating again. He felt like a child, unable to control his emotions for long enough to think logically around them. Did he want to, though? Did he want to think around his emotions and squash them down until they were nothing more than a dull sensation in the back of his mind? John meant more to him than that. So much more than any of those other pedestrian members of society it had been his misfortune to come into contact with- the kind of people he'd later chosen to permanently delete from memory. The thought of forgetting John made Sherlock's chest ache.  
A flicker of black in the corner of his eye caught the detective's attention.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure of this little visit?" Sherlock turned into the living room, facing the man with as much indifference as he could muster.  
Mycroft looked his brother over, raking his eyes from dark curls to pale bare feet. A look of distaste ghosted his features momentarily before returning to his usual unreadable mask.

"Let's not play games, dear brother, you know why I'm here. Now is not the time for drug addled antics. You were out cold for almost 2 days." He sat stiffly on the sofa, one long leg folded gracefully over the other, fingers wrapped possessively over the handle of a black umbrella.

Sherlock took to his chair and crossed his arms stubbornly, trying unsuccessfully not to flinch at the ache spreading from the faint purple bruising in the crook of his elbow. It hadn't been his intention to pass out for more than a few hours. He must have taken a bigger dose than planned. The fact that he'd misjudged on something so important should have caused the man concern, but he didn't care.

"I turned a blind eye last night to allow you a moment to grieve in peace, Sherlock, but I thought you better than this. Obviously I awarded you far too much credit." Mycroft almost spat.

"Let's drop the facade, Mycroft. As much as I enjoy picking apart the falsity of your claims of sentiment, I'd much prefer it if we just got on with this," Sherlock mimicked his brother's tone, enjoying the exasperated sigh it caused. "What do you want?"

"I can assure you that my concern is most definitely genuine. He was your friend and now he is no longer with us. I can't imagine how you must be feeling-"

"I don't _feel_. You of all people know that." Mycroft let out another sigh.

"Oh, but we both know that isn't true. Not in John Watson's case, anyway."

Sherlock stopped listening, choosing to look through the man and focus on an extremely interesting patch of wallpaper instead. When Mycroft spoke again, his voice was small, hesitant. It sounded almost sympathetic.

"I know, Sherlock. I know that you loved him-" the glare this received was enough to stop him in his tracks.

"Have you recently suffered a significant blow to the head, _dear brother_, or are you simply becoming prematurely senile? It was you yourself that deemed me without a heart, and by default incapable of frivolous things like _love_."

"Yes, I had spent the last 34 years completely convinced of this. Nothing- _no one_- had ever come even close to testing my little theory. And if it hadn't been for a certain army doctor, I am fairly certain that my beliefs would have stood strong."

Sherlock chose again to ignore his brother. There was no point in pretending, Mycroft could see straight through him. And if he was completely honest with himself, Sherlock simply couldn't be bothered to put up a fight anymore. So what if the man knew? So what if the entirety of London knew? It didn't matter. John would never know, and he was the only one it would have ever mattered to.  
Sherlock's eyes prickled painfully. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Mycroft gave up.

"I informed Gregory Lestrade last night as you were too engrossed in your little..._indiscretion_, and he in turn informed Harriet Watson. I have offered my financial assistance and she has accepted. All will be taken care of." Sherlock nodded once, trying to swallow away the lump in his throat but it dug in its claws.

"Is that all?" he was aiming for boredom, but fell short. He could hear the exhaustion dripping from every syllable, and knew the other man wouldn't miss it.

Mycroft unfolded himself from the sofa and nodded, uttering a quick "goodbye, Sherlock" before closing the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock didn't move. He sat and watched the dust motes floating delicately in the fading light of the living room, sighing every so often and watching them run and dive from his breath.

John. It wasn't until the man laid blood soaked and paling with Sherlock clinging on to his wrist, fingers squeezing desperately at the light fluttery thrum under his skin that he'd realised he'd loved him. He had a feeling, though, that Mycroft had known long before he had. And now, here he was, faced with an unacceptably empty arm chair and no _excruciatingly_ slow tap-tap of laptop keys to fill the quiet. John's ridiculously slow two finger typing had always annoyed Sherlock to the point of distraction, but now he found himself craving the sound.

_It's too empty._

He stood quickly and pulled his coat on over dressing gown and left his expensive leather shoes unlaced. He didn't care what he looked like or what his brother would think. He didn't even care that he'd have to suffer through another drugs bust and watch Anderson rip apart whatever he could get those dirty, adulterous hands on. He needed to find something- anything- to help himself cope. Just for now.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't know whether I like this chapter. It might be slightly OOC. Let me know what you think :D**

**Warning: Heavier drug use, it's probably gonna get worse before it gets any better. ANGSTTTTTTTTTTTTGGSH|WRJN|**

**Disclaimer: Still nope.**

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Sherlock sat stiffly in the backseat of a cab on the way back to Baker Street, hand wrapped loosely around the little plastic baggy in his pocket. He silently praised himself for keeping in the good graces of at least some of London's less savoury residents. He'd only managed to purchase a small amount, but he'd only had petty cash on him and wasn't too confident that drug dealers accepted Visa Electron.

Humour. John would appreciate that. He'd have to re-tell his little joke when he got ho- _oh_.

He'd forgotten for a moment. The memory tore the oxygen from his lungs.

He shouldn't have done that quick "sample" line with the dealer; it hadn't had the numbing effect he'd wanted. Even now, with veins pumped full of whatever miscellaneous mixture of white powder he'd crammed into his nostrils, his brain remained unfalteringly sharp and alive with John. He rubbed at his temples trying to soothe himself.

_John, John, John, John, John._ The man had become a completely crucial part of his live in the short amount of time they'd spent together and Sherlock hadn't even noticed. The realisation made his heart lurch, stomach twist.

Everything hurt. Even his limbs ached. He couldn't do this.

When the cab pulled up outside the flat, Sherlock threw a fist full of notes in the driver's general direction and flung himself out into the cool night air. He must look insane; hair sticking out erratically, pupils dilated, chest heaving.

Panic attack. How inconvenient.

He fumbled with his keys, hands shaking. "_Dammit, pull yourself together_," he hissed. If he couldn't make it through today alone, what hope did he have for tomorrow? Or the next day? He had an entire life to live, for God's sake!

His eyes began to blur, tears carving salty paths across sharp cheekbones. "_Breathe."_

He was causing a scene now. People were starting to notice the crazed man half-growling at himself.

Finally, the key slotted into the lock. He forced himself through the small gap he'd allowed in the door, collapsing on the other side and pulling his knees up under his chin.

A sob ripped its way out of his throat.

"Sherlock, is that you?" Mrs Hudson's voice was laced with concern. No doubt she'd been sitting up with a cup of tea in hand waiting for him to return.

Sherlock's stomach made a move to evacuate its contents. He took a moment to be thankful that there was nothing left in him to bring up. Still, dry heaving was a wholly unenjoyable experience.

Something cool and damp pressed against his forehead. It was comforting.

"It's okay, dear, it's okay. I've got you," Mrs Hudson cooed, pressing a cloth delicately to his face and neck.

They sat together on the welcome mat, the landlady and the detective, for what could have been hours. Sherlock let the tears fall unabashedly. Indignity wasn't a factor when it came to Mrs Hudson; she gladly clung onto him like a mother shrouding a child.

Eventually, she untangled herself from him and gripped his arm, pulling him to stand. It took the last remaining dregs of energy Sherlock had to push himself up, blinking firmly to clear his eyes.  
Climbing the stairs to the flat was not unlike climbing a mountain.

Once inside, he made a beeline for his bedroom and flopped ungracefully onto his bed.  
Mrs Hudson made quick work of cleaning whatever experiments and papers were still sprawling over the sheets. She then removed his shoes and coat, the latter taking a little longer than it would have if he'd bothered to help. Instead, he just laid there. Moving wasn't an option. Even if he'd wanted to, he didn't think it possible in his current state. Exhausted wasn't an appropriately strong word for what he was feeling. She didn't tut or make complaints, though, even with her bad hip. Sherlock was grateful.

His mother wasn't particularly present for his childhood. She was often away on business trips or last-minute vacations with his father. The maids had ignored whatever attempts to gain their attention he'd made, and Mycroft wasn't exactly what you'd call a doting brother. He was left almost completely to his own devices growing up. Mrs Hudson was the closest thing to family he had, and he loved her as such.

When she'd finished and Sherlock was tucked into bed, she placed a hand on his cheek and ran a thumb over the swollen skin under his eyes.

"Oh Sherlock," she cooed again. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. Everything he needed to know was made evident in those 3 syllables. Her words came out choked, gravelly. She'd been crying and, by the sound of it, long before their little moment downstairs.  
Suddenly, He felt ashamed of himself. Of course Mrs Hudson would be mourning the loss of John. She had cared for him, no doubt to the same extent she did for Sherlock. John was good at that, making people like him. He was just so..._likeable_.

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson. I'll be fine. Thank you," he whispered. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth but didn't touch her eyes.

"I know you will, dear. Do you need anything? A cup of tea or something to eat?"

Sherlock just shook his head. She attempted a smile again and leaned in, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. If Sherlock's heart hadn't already been ripped in two, this unexpectedly tender action would have done it.

"If you need anything- anything at all- please don't hesitate." And with that, she left.

Sherlock stared fixedly at the ceiling until he heard the faint click of the door latching. He sat up slowly, stretching a long arm across to his coat pocket and routed around until his fingers came into contact with cellophane.  
He shuffled lazily out of bed, stopping first in the kitchen and then bathroom to grab his supplies, before collapsing again in bed.

He was nervous. It had been so long since he'd even thought about doing anything this reckless, but he didn't want to feel like this. He didn't want the pain anymore.

He tied a piece of fabric around his elbow, twisting in a pen to ensure its tightness.  
Next, he sprinkled a small amount of the off white powder onto a teaspoon, mixing in lukewarm water and heating his concoction with a lighter, watching it bubble stickily.  
The end of a q-tip made a decent enough make-shift filter as he sucked the finished product into the needle.  
It was easier to find a vein than it had been the last time he'd taken this drug. He'd only had to slap his arm a couple of times before he was ready.  
This was it.  
He plunged the needle into his skin.

It was a completely different feeling to the morphine he'd taken the other day. Instead of a fuzzy almost-dullness, his mind was dancing.

He smiled for the first time in days.


End file.
